


A sad, beautiful, tragic affair.

by smartforholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends With Benefits, Greg Lestrade Whump, Hospitalization, M/M, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, One Night Stands, Pre-Season/Series 01, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:35:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29509122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smartforholmes/pseuds/smartforholmes
Summary: Greg knew, from the moment his eyes laid upon Mycroft Holmes for the first time, he wouldn't rest until he had the mysterious man on his bed. Both not considering the risks and complications a tragic love affair could provoque.Based on Mystrade Monday prompt #29 “This is going to hurt.”
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 2
Kudos: 58





	A sad, beautiful, tragic affair.

Greg Lestrade didn’t know what he should expect the first time he met Mycroft Holmes, the older brother of a magnificent, brilliant young man that stumbled on one of his cases and solved it in 2 minutes. The aura of danger and mystery that encircled the “minor government official’s” tall form immediately attracted him; his spicy and intoxicating fragrance which emitted whenever he walked past Greg was just addicting. Obsessing to a point where, against anyone’s allegations, the DI decided of accepting Sherlock Holmes on his crime scenes, just to have the chance of encountering the attractive elder Holmes brother.

He never expected his desire to be reciprocal, foreseen the Mycroft Holmes winking at him when Sherlock was not paying much attention, delicate touches on his shoulders or waist if Mycroft was trying to prove a point; such touches getting more frequent. Sometimes, not even an argument or discussion being pointed out for Mycroft’s soft and warm hands to stroke the fabric that covered his body, only the primal need of physical contact flooding naturally between both men.

Greg had never needed anything more than having Mycroft on his bed.

July arrived with a hot wave across the United Kingdom, replacing the usual moderate and enjoyable weather with high temperatures, forcing the population to wear clothing adapted to the climate. Still, whenever Mycroft showed himself at the Yard, a three-piece suit shaped perfectly his slim and attractive physique, stealing glares and sighs of amorousness from male and female workers equally. Said detail only made Gregory want him even more, a sense of jealousy and belonging burning on his chest.

His dreams became a reality in the midst of the month, late on the night as he walked out of NSY, a black Mercedes Benz parked not too far away from him, Mycroft relaying neatly against the driver’s door, his peculiar umbrella twisting with the movements of his hand.

“I wondered for a moment a potential late-night shift, obviously committing a mistake, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said casually, the hints of a smirk being notorious on his face.

With a soft chuckle, Greg stared at him with his eyes shining, and not exactly with tenderness. “You’re not one for perpetrating those, aren’t you?”

A full smirk now being directed towards the DI, Mycroft cleared his throat and stared directly at Lestrade’s dark, brown eyes. “What are the casualties, then? I do not. Perhaps,” He hesitated for a moment, licking his lips discreetly. “Perhaps I can be ceded into a punishment.”

A huge smile illuminating and erasing the former tired features of the Detective Inspector is enough for the government official to walk towards the passenger’s door, opening it for Greg to get inside the vehicle, his hands shaking slightly with enthusiasm and nervousness alike.

The following events happened in a blur for both men, not knowing with certainty how long the drive was, or when they stumbled inside the enormous Mansion property of the elder Holmes. But the silver-haired was now laying gently on top of the auburn, kissing him with devotion and yearn, lips and tongues meeting constantly, stealing soft moans and whimpers from each other. Enjoying, even if it was for just one night, the intense tension that grew up to an overwhelming point from the moment they met.

Fortuitously, their late-night encounters didn’t stop there.

Notwithstanding how often they met, or how steamy the moment could turn into, there was always hesitation on Greg’s part. As much as he enjoyed being the only one –or so he wanted to believe– to break apart the always put together posture and attitude of Mycroft Holmes, deep down he knew it was just a casual habit, blow off some steam.

His voice agitated, sweat streaming down his temple, Greg whispered against Mycroft’s lips. “Are you sure?”

A hand already inside his trousers, tempting with three of his fingers the waistband of his pants, Mycroft mumbled, “Of course I’m bloody sure.”

And their routine would continue until they laid between twisted bedsheets, panting and sticky with body fluids, Mycroft’s head resting on Greg’s right shoulder before getting up from the bed towards the Balcony of some Five Star Hotel to smoke a cigarette.

Christ, Greg could be fucking in a £14,500 per night suite and wouldn’t care in the slightest.

Having a stunning view of Mycroft’s pale back, reddened in some parts with love bites, Gregory wondered if someday he could have the chance of having his name written in the soft and tender skin; pass from casual to formal.

However, the moment his eyes opened after abruptly falling asleep, Mycroft would be gone, a card with clean and neat calligraphy reading _“Until next week. MH”._

Greg’s then struck like a lightning strike with the realization of, maybe –just maybe–, he was falling in love with Sherlock’s brother. Considering it wasn’t just rough, purposeless sex what they had anymore, but calm and gentle coax towards climax taking its place.

“Oh, shit,” Greg whispered, letting his head fall back to the pillow, an arm thrown over his eyes. “This is going to hurt.”

* * *

Just at the beginning of the following month, Greg is surprised by the appearance of not one, but both Holmes brothers. Sherlock’s eyes looking like they could turn whoever stared at them for long into dust, his bony hands closed into fists. Mycroft, on his part, emotionless as ever, back completely straight and chin pointed high, radiating power and command.

“Stop shagging my brother!” Sherlock yelled once it was just the three of them inside Greg’s office.

Eyes widening, and swallowing with difficulty, the DI responded, “Who says I’m shagging him? Are you doing drugs again, Sherlock? You know that wasn’t part of–“

“Do you think I’m stupid?!” The younger Holmes snapped, causing Mycroft, who had remained quiet and non-affected by the outburst, to finally interfere.

“Brother Mine, that’s more than enough.”

“Oh, don’t make me start on you!” He snapped, his attention now focused on Mycroft. “Stop meddling your enormous nose into things that are not your business! Just for once, I get involved in something that doesn’t concern you and that I _actually_ enjoy and you have to ruin it! You are in fact the worst brother.”

“Sherlock, enough!” Greg shouted, punching his desk brusquely, making both brothers flinch. “If you’re going to keep that attitude then consider yourself out of my cases.”

“Who needs your fucking lame cases anyway?” Sherlock snarled before storming out of the office, snapping a ‘fuck off’ at some curious officer.

Mycroft and Greg are then standing in the office, the open door preventing them from discussing whatever personal topics that could come afloat; high risk of the commencement of gossip around the Yard.

“If you excuse me, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said, his head bowed politely and walking towards the exit.

“Mycroft,” Greg interrupted him, the mentioned stopping an inch away from the frame. “Call me as soon as you can, yeah?”

“We’ll see.”

And he was gone.

* * *

August slipped away like a bottle of wine – quite literally for the Detective Inspector; his afternoons, formerly filled with gasps of passion and name callings between moans, turned into sessions of self-despising. His alcoholism, the same one Greg believed had controlled came back to him in a rush, an old fridge being moved into his bedroom, containing countless cans of cheap beer. And sometimes, if his salary allowed him, one or two bottles of Scotch.

Ever since Sherlock’s tantrum, Mycroft had never appeared in his life again, only leaving occasional voicemails on his phone whenever the silver-haired refused to speak to him as nothing had happened. His voice, shielded with politeness and ice, insisted him on answering his attempts of communication. But Greg wasn’t ready yet.

He was not prepared to be faced with the fact Mycroft was never his, and won’t ever be.

Eventually, as the winter started to become colder, the elder Holmes’ call ceased and Sherlock behaved more respectfully. Well, considering not calling an idiot whomever he approached first on crime scenes. This brought Greg the peace and calm he lost back in the day, forgetting as the days and seasons passed by he ever shared a bed with Mycroft Holmes.

Then, John Watson joined his life suddenly, the first friend of sorts Sherlock ever introduced to him, moulding Sherlock’s behaviour and the way he saw things. Changing him for the better, helping him to grow up as a person. Loving him. Understanding him. Finding, by a chance of fate, his soulmate.

Needless to say, the topic had to be brought on one day John invited him for a pint on a pub near the Yard after a tiring and still unresolved case.

“You and Sherlock are made for each other, don’t waste your chance mate,” The DI slurred, taking a sip from his 8th beer, eyes unfocused and cheeks blushing.

Watson coughed awkwardly, giving a long stare to the drunk Detective Inspector. “Greg, you’re wasted, and I haven’t even ordered my first drink!”

Laughing openly, not sure how he passed from a heartbroken drunk to a silly, chuckling one, Greg grabbed him by the collar of his shirt rather strongly. “Don’t. Waste. Your. Chance.”

“I already lost mine,” He added after a while, letting go of a frightened and surprised John, noticing how his cheeks were getting wet with fresh tears.

Being under the influence was quite an emotional rollercoaster, wasn’t it?

30 minutes later, Greg’s head laid on John’s shoulder as he sang with a broken voice _‘Someone Like You’_ by Adele after telling his entire affair with the elder Holmes. Truth be said, John Watson was none to criticize what Greg and Mycroft had, himself being part of numerous shameless flings during his time in the Army. So he limited to just be Greg’s shoulder to lay on, supporting him since he was sure no one had offered before.

* * *

Another month passed, and just when Watson thought they would repeat the same adventurous appointment on a pub, John found himself sitting on the Waiting Area of St. Bart’s, hands clean but the heavy weight of Greg’s blood still omnipresent on them. The crimson red liquid contrasting the hazel fabric of his jumper.

Sherlock paced beside him, murmuring repeatedly how much of an idiot the DI was for putting himself between him and an armed suspect, receiving two deathly stabs on the torso that led him to remain on surgery for 4 hours until that moment. Anyone who didn’t know Sherlock would say blame and resentment were painted on his face. But John knew better, recognizing the very rare moments his flatmate hid fear and nervousness with annoyance.

Several hours later, as the first rays of sunlight illuminated the outside of the Hospital, a Doctor came out, his expression being read by the younger Holmes instantly.

“How is he?” Sherlock went ahead to say, not waiting for John to fully recover from his still somnolent state.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade is in a critical condition for the moment,” He started, switching his stare between Holmes and Watson. “Although we were able to control the haemorrhage on his lungs, he lost a significant amount of blood during surgery, and flat-lined for approximately 2 minutes.”

Sherlock swallowed a lump on his throat, feeling how the information the Doctor was giving to them created grotesque scenarios in his mind that only led to one conclusion.

_Death._

“W-Will he survive?” The consulting detective questioned, wanting to believe the calculations he made in a matter of seconds were incorrect.

The Medic’s jaw tensed, expressing his hesitation. “It’s too early to say to be frank,” He confessed, a sharp of common guilt appearing on his chest at the disbelief on their faces. “But we won’t give up on him, nor will he give up on you. I promise we’ll do anything in our hands to save him.”

“When can we see him?” John asked, gesturing a pale Sherlock to sit down.

“Perhaps in an hour, he won’t be up for the foreseeable time, but your presence does more to him than you can expect.” With a short nod, he excused himself. “Gentlemen.”

Once they were alone, the blonde sat next to the younger Holmes, both lost on their own thoughts. John’s head was fuzzy, ignoring Sherlock’s comments on Greg’s condition. The last words Gregory muttered between wet coughs whilst they waited for the ambulance to arrive echoed endlessly on his mind, not comprehending what the words meant on its own.

_“Lost… M-memory… My-c…”_

“Is your brother never going to show up?” John asked out of nowhere, stopping Sherlock’s rambling.

“Why would he?”

“I-I don’t know, Greg almost dies in an attempt to save your life, he must know.”

Smiling, Sherlock replied, “Oh, he knows already, John.”

“Wh–“

“You’re terrible at keeping secrets, you know? I heard you speaking with yourself last week as you prepared dinner; having a moral dilemma for sorts.” Sherlock assured, stretching his numbed long limbs. “I believe you had the stupid idea that I, the smart one, wasn’t aware of my brother and Geoff’s affair.”

_“Greg.”_

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Whatever,” Shrugging John’s correction off. “My point is, I may be one of the reasons their ‘thing’ came to an end. The vital part of this case is either Lestrade or my brother became too attached to the other, being the mawkish need for sexual intercoursement not vital on their meetings anymore.”

John’s mouth was wide open, Sherlock Holmes once more demonstrating to him what a brilliant human being he was. “First of all, this is not a case. Second, how could you be a reason? And lastly, what you mean is…”

Gagging dramatically, the younger Holmes finished the sentence. “They’re in love.”

“You still haven’t answered my question, how could you be a reason for them to ‘break up’? What did you do?”

Sherlock cringed at the memory of him, younger and detoxing from his most recent overdose, acting like a toddler; making a scene just because his brother was having sex with a man he knew.

“I don’t see how it is so important to you to know that. Instead, let’s focus on my brother’s arrival.” He changed the topic quickly, setting his joined hands under his chin.

John grunted but relaxed against the seat, another query joining his tousled thoughts. “Mycroft’s arrival?”

Sherlock nodded, his blue eyes focused on John’s. “My brother is set to arrive at the Emergency entrance of the Hospital in approximately–“

“Sherlock?!”

“Now.”

Both turned in time to see Mycroft _literally_ running towards them, his face pale like he’d seen a ghost, hair wet and tousled, the always impeccable three-piece suit long gone, a simple dress shirt and trousers. A heavy, dark coat covered his body, dissimulating the trembles that roamed his entire anatomy.

“Sherlock,” He panted when they encountered, John and Sherlock getting up from their seats.

“Brother,” Sherlock greeted, false excitement in his voice. “Took you long enough to join us.”

Disregarding Sherlock’s attitude, John stepped in front of the younger Holmes, gesturing Mycroft the seat he previously occupied, worrying due to the tremors the auburn was going through now that he had a close look of him.

“Take a seat, Mycroft,”

“No, Gregor– Inspector Lestrade, how is he?” His voice shook, tears forming in his eyes. “Doctor Watson, _how is he?_ ”

“I said take a seat, Mycroft. Sit down and we’ll update you on his condition.” John spat authoritatively, his patience evaporating at the insistence by the taller man.

Grudgingly and with a characteristic eye-roll, Mycroft sat down, looking up to his little brother and his flatmate, expecting.

“Greg’s in a pretty bad condition, alright? We were told he was legally dead for 2 minutes during surgery; the main concern, his internal injuries, are dealt with, but the risk of complications remains high.” John stopped for a moment, digesting what he was about to say, Mycroft’s pale orbs full of terror. “It’s too soon to consider recovery as an option, let alone survival.”

With a soft sigh, the elder Holmes allowed the held back tears to slide in a delicate waterfall, covering his eyes with both palms. Feeling ashamed of the way he had pushed Gregory away, how the time they could’ve spent together turned out to be a painful reminder that karma indeed existed.

Wiping the tears away, courtly turning down John’s attempt of consolation, Mycroft sniffed and stared at John Watson’s eyes. “Can I see him? What’s the location of his room?” The auburn inquired, desperate and fearful for the first time in his existence of the dim tick tack that came from the clock hands. “Answer me!”

“Visitors are not allowed in this instant, Mycroft, quit the sentiment.”

“Bullshit.” Mycroft cursed, getting up on his feet and walking towards the secretary, his mobile in hand as he texted furiously. “Excuse me, may I know Detective Inspector Lestrade’s room?”

The woman in her mid-20’s frowned, confused at Mycroft’s request after just being informed visiting hours started until half an hour more. Almost denying the delivery of information, a call to the main telephone interrupted her; the call, rather threat by an unknown voice made her look at Mycroft’s eyes, a polite and spurious smile shaping his lips.

“Room 27.”

Not bothering on informing, nor inviting whether Sherlock or John, Mycroft sprinted towards the nearest lift, thanking heavens once he realized he had picked an empty one. In his loneliness, the auburn pressed his back against one of the flat, silver walls; a trembling gasp escaping from his mouth, giving in the shattering consternation in his chest.

The doors opened and he climbed out, long legs facilitating a considerable speed as he walked without explicitly be contemplated as running. In seconds he stood in front of the door that read 27 in dark letters. His hands trembling, he grabbed the doorknob and opened it, his legs almost surrendering at the sight that welcomed him.

Lestrade – Gregory looked like a corpse, his damaged and colourless body covered with a white comforter, the beautiful salt and pepper hair he adored to pass his hands through fell with delicacy over his closed eyes, surrounded by dark circles which highlighted due to the paleness on his face. A tube down his throat cleared his airways; helped him to stay alive. The torment that, not even in the moments he had hated Greg for making him fall deeply in love would wish to the DI.

Painful as it was, in that precise moment Gregory was the clear portrayal of the battle between life and death.

“Oh, Gregory,” Mycroft murmured, walking to grab the nearest chair and drag it to Greg’s bedside, sitting cautiously. “Look at you.”

He knew Greg wasn’t listening, the myth doctors and nurses spread like a virus absent of any veracity, such statement only made to calm the demons that haunted siblings and close friends, family members, co-workers. Albeit his beliefs and the independent annoying presence in his mind that found it ridiculous, Mycroft cleared his throat and leaned closer to the immobile figure on the bed.

“I’m so, so sorry, Gregory,” Mycroft choked, reaching out so he could grasp Greg’s cold hand between his, stroking the protruding veins. “I should’ve let you know the way I felt, should’ve– should’ve been honest from the very beginning.”

His eyes focus on an inexistent spot in the room, concentrating on anything but Greg’s devastating, motionless body.

“All the caddish flirting, intense stares despite people were surrounding us, the late nights and early morning by your side. **_Everything_**. I was– _am_ , truly, madly, deeply in love with you.” The auburn confessed, tears sliding down and contrasting the pristine white sheets. “And it’s unsettling to think about the fact that I could’ve tried to fix the mess I made, forced you to listen for once without getting our hands on each other,” He laughed at his own satire.

The silver-haired’s heartbeat spiked for a second, and a calloused finger impromptu caressed his left palm, the movement almost unnoticeable if it weren’t for Mycroft’s intense sensibility and perception.

“Gregory?” He asked, voice trembling and his hold tightening around Greg’s hand, feeling now the slight twitch of his fingers. “Come back to me, dearest. I’m right here, I’m here,”

Mycroft repeated the sentence countless times, his heart filling with relief as Greg’s movements were not mere reflexes anymore, but direct attempts of showing signs of consciousness. Eventually, Gregory’s long eyelashes fluttered and his mesmerizing brown eyes gently opened, his vision partially unfocused.

“Greg­–“ The elder Holmes sobbed, drawing the DI’s hand to his lips, pressing small kisses in a necessitous manner across the bony knuckles. “I’m sorry, I-I’m sorry, I love you, I–“ Mycroft stuttered, his self-control left in oblivion. The most dangerous person in England reduced to nothing but a quavering and heartbroken young man, who had almost lost the most valuable gift life could’ve given him.

Amongst Mycroft’s sobbing, Greg’s eyes teared up, both due to the increasing discomfort on his chest and the sight of the person he loved the most in the world breaking into pieces. Extracting himself from the elder Holmes’ hold, his weakened fingers tugged the end of Mycroft’s coat sleeve, catching finally the auburn’s attention.

With his eyes fixed on Mycroft’s, that were staring with concentration at his hand, Greg lowered his middle and ring finger, stretching the rest and shaking his hand gently from side to side, a basic sign he had learned from his nephew.

_I. Love. You_.

An enormous smile contradicted the thick tears that painted his pale, freckled cheeks, returning the sign but expressing the meaning with his own voice. “I love you.”

Letting his eyes close for one more time, Greg slipped into a dreamless sleep with the certainty Mycroft was by his side, and that every believing he _used_ _to_ have concerning their feelings was gratifyingly untrue; the weight and warmth of Mycroft’s hands on his proving it.

They may have had a sad, beautiful, tragic affair. But both men were certain a wonderful and magic love was just beginning.


End file.
